She was happy that she could affect him, could really influence a man whose talent she admired, whom she believed in.
"I can't do anything to John except make him yawn!" she had replied.
So to-night she devoted her happy mood to brushing away care from Cairy's mind, and by the time they were seated at the little table with its coarse, wine-stained napkin, he was laughing at her, teasing her about growing stout, of which she pretended to be greatly afraid.
"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "I stand after meals and roll and roll, and Mrs.
Peet pounds me until I am black and blue, but it's no use. I am gaining!
Tommy, you'll have to find some younger woman to say your pretty things to.
I am growing frightfully homely! … That's one comfort with John,—he'll
never know it."
As the meal passed their mood became serious once more and tender, as it had been when they met. Cairy, lighting cigarette after cigarette, talked on, about himself. He was very despondent. He had made a hard fight for recognition; he thought he had won. And then had come discouragement after discouragement. It looked as if he should be obliged to accept an offer from a new magazine that was advertising its way into notice and do some articles for them. No, he would not go back to be Gossom's private mouthpiece at any price!
He did not whine,—Cairy never did that exactly; but he presented himself for sympathy. The odds had been against him from the start. And Isabelle was touched by this very need for sunshine in the emotional temperament of the man. Conny had appraised the possibilities of his talent intelligently, believed that if properly exploited he should "arrive." But Isabelle was moved by the possibilities of his failure,—a much more dangerous state of mind….
It was long past the time for the theatre, but Cairy made no move. It was pleasantly quiet in the little room. The few diners had left long ago, and the debilitated old waiter had retreated to the bar. Cairy had said, "If it were not for you, for what you give me—" And she had thought, 'Yes, what I might give him, what he needs! And we are so happy together here.'…
Another hour passed. The waiter had returned and clattered dishes suggestively and departed again. Cairy had not finished saying all he wanted to say…. There were long pauses between his words, of which even the least carried feeling. Isabelle, her pretty mutinous face touched with tenderness, listened, one hand resting on the table. Cairy covered the hand with his, and at the touch of his warm fingers Isabelle flushed. Was it the mood of this day, or something deeper in her nature that thrilled at this touch as she had never thrilled before in her life? It held her there listening to his words, her breath coming tightly. She wanted to run away, and she did not move…. The love that he was telling her she seemed to have heard whispering in her heart long before….
The way to Isabelle's heart was through pity, the desire to give, as with many women. Cairy felt it instinctively, and followed the path. Few men can blaze their way to glory, but all can offer the opportunity to a woman of splendid sacrifice in love!
"You know I care!" she had murmured. "But, oh, Tom—" That "but" and the sigh covered much,—John, the little girl, the world as it is. If she could only give John what she felt she could give this man, with his pleading eyes that said, 'With you I should be happy, I should conquer!'